


Stairwell

by Halrloprillalar (prillalar)



Series: Vodka Tonic [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alcohol, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, Past Victor Nikiforov/Christophe Giacometti, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Seduction, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 05:04:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8609839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prillalar/pseuds/Halrloprillalar
Summary: After the Cup of China short programs, a frustrated Christophe seduces an even more frustrated Georgi.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I love these two together way too much. Way too much.

Christophe pushes open the door and stands for a moment on the landing. No matter how posh the hotel, the stairwells are all the same: poorly lit concrete, hard metal handrails, and a half-sweet smell you'd be better off not identifying.

His room is five floors up but he goes down, down to the parkade or fire door or whatever lurks at the bottom. He needs a place to yell once, to beat his hands on the wall, just for a moment. Just to let out some of the frustration twisting him into a kinked-up cord, until he's straight and smooth and ready to insinuate himself around Victor one more time.

What's lurking at the bottom is nothing, no door outside, no collection of broken floor polishers, no nest of rags or rats. Nothing — and Georgi Popovich.

Georgi is sitting on the floor, back against the wall, a bottle of baijiu in one hand and his phone in the other. He swipes his thumb across the screen, scowling, staring.

There's another staircase at the other end of the hall and Christophe can get there, do his scream therapy, and be back in the bar in ten minutes. Back to sidling up next to Victor because _how are you, it's been too long_ , murmuring in Victor's ear because _can you believe the noise in here_ , sliding his hand up Victor's thigh because _come back to my room so we can fuck._

It's worked before. It's worked before and it will work again. But Christophe isn't sure — quite — that it will work tonight.

Georgi looks up. "Go fuck yourself," he says, more or less, in Russian. He lifts the bottle and takes a drink, chokes a little before he gets it down.

"If only I could." Christophe leans on the metal handrail. "If only we all could."

Georgi's face is red, probably the baijiu. That stuff will sneak up on even the most hardened drinker and, Russian or not, Georgi seems like a lightweight. _Vodka Tonic,_ Christophe thinks, that's what he called Georgi once or twice, a few years ago. Sitting beside Victor in the bar, toes up Victor's trouser leg under the table, both laughing at Georgi until Victor was ready to leave.

"Go away, you bastard." English this time, like he thinks that will work better. Georgi's eyes are red too, so maybe it's not just the baijiu. "Leave me alone."

"You're more eloquent in Russian."

Georgi lets off a string of invective — outside Christophe's vocabulary, mostly, but unmistakeable — and punctuates it by spitting on the floor.

"It's like music." Christophe walks down the last of the steps.

Georgi glares. "I have to make a phone call." He stabs at the screen, presses the phone to his ear.

Someone should really take away that phone. Someone who wants to minimize the relationship drama. Someone who wants to protect Georgi from himself. Someone else.

"Bitch," Georgi yells, Russian again, and throws his phone onto the floor. Christophe has heard that word before, mumbled sleepily when he tugged his share of the blanket back from Victor, hissed into his ear when he dug his nails too hard into Victor's back.

Georgi scrubs his arm across his face. "She blocked me." He holds out his hand. "Give me your phone."

"It's a very personal device," Christophe says. 

Georgi frowns at him, swings the baijiu up again, drinks, coughs.

Someone should really take away that bottle. But Christophe watches Georgi swallow one more time before he slides down beside him and holds out his hand.

Georgi slumps, arms on his knees, head bowing down. There's a smudge of purple still at the corner of his eye, a blur of lipstick just under the curve of his mouth.

Christophe wraps his hand around the bottle, tugs at it. Georgi holds on at first, but then his grip slackens. Christophe brings the bottle to his mouth, pretends to drink. Even the smell of it is fire, he wets his lips and they go half numb.

It's already been decided, Christophe knows this, but he has to talk it out a little in his mind. His confidence is shaken, he tells himself. It's a lie, of course, except maybe where Victor is concerned, but it's a smooth lie. He's got to build himself back up if he's going to skate well tomorrow. And it's only nice of him to give Georgi a little comfort, a little catharsis.

"I'm the one who should be upset." Christophe sets the bottle down, out of Georgi's reach. Letting him get full-on drunk wouldn't be sporting in either arena and Christophe is always sporting. "You're so far ahead of me."

Georgi turns his head. "Of course." His shoulders spread and he leans back against the wall, his red-rimmed eyes brightening. "This is my year," he says. "And then she'll take me back."

Cold is seeping into Christophe from the concrete floor and he's got to be careful so he's not too stiff tomorrow. But he doesn't like his chances of getting Georgi back to his hotel room. Too many steps, too many doors. Georgi will think about what he's doing and panic or he'll wander off, bleating after Anya. Christophe hopes for her sake she's in a different hotel.

"You'll show her." Christophe leans in, presses his shoulder against Georgi's, spreads his legs out so their knees bump. "When you win."

"Where's the bottle?" Georgi looks around, stretches over Christophe, reaching out.

Christophe shifts and slides his arm around Georgi, throws his weight on him a little, away from the baijiu. "You'll show her," he says again. It's hard to be subtle in a second language and he suspects Georgi might not understand subtlety in any language.

Georgi sags back into Christophe's arm. "I'll show her," he says.

Christophe wraps his fingers around Georgi's shoulder, stroking his thumb along Georgi's collarbone. He puts his hand on Georgi's thigh, sliding up and in.

Georgi pulls away, jumps to his feet. "What the fuck?" He stumbles forward, knocks over the bottle.

Christophe stands, stepping between Georgi and the stairs. He wonders if he's miscalculated. If Georgi is going to hit him or, worse, start crying. "It's okay," he tells Georgi. "She doesn't know what she's missing."

Georgi looks at Christophe, hands curling up almost into fists. He doesn't speak.

Christophe runs his thumb along his own lower lip, like he's flicking away a crumb. "She doesn't appreciate you."

And Georgi stops where he is. He puts his hand over his mouth. He swallows and Christophe knows he's in.

"You'll show her," he says, "when you win." He steps in close, puts one hand on Georgi's back, leans in until their cheeks are brushing and his mouth is against Georgi's ear.

Every muscle in Georgi's body is pulled tight, his breath quick and shallow, he's vibrating, Christophe can almost hear the hum.

Christophe is vibrating too, so nearly there, so close to what he wants. His dick is thick and lurching, tired of being patient. He wants to slide his tongue inside Georgi's ear, feel his body jerk, but he waits.

Georgi raises his arm, hesitates.

Christophe whispers, "Show _me_."

Georgi clutches the back of Christophe's neck, crumpling the fabric of Christophe's shirt inside his fist, he leans his head into Christophe's shoulder.

_Got you._ Christophe runs his hand down Georgi's side, back down over his ass, gives it a squeeze. Which he's thought about doing before, now and again, mostly to see Georgi glower and swear. Georgi might be glowering now, but all Christophe can feel are Georgi's fingers digging into his neck and his other hand coming up on Christophe's back.

Christophe wants to take a little longer over this but any minute now Georgi is going to remember that they're in a hotel stairwell and also that he's straight. Christophe reaches down between them and puts his hand on Georgi's dick. Georgi and his dick both jump, not quite in unison, and Christophe grins into Georgi's hair.

Georgi is half hard already and Christophe rubs him through his pants, starts him off easy, like some horny adolescent "you do me and I'll do you". _Thinking about those tits?_ Christophe wants to whisper.

When Georgi is all there, pushing his head into Christophe's neck, pushing his dick into Christophe's hand, Christophe goes for the waistband and the zipper, gets his fingers around Georgi's cock — _not bad_ — gives it a heft and squeeze. Georgi is waxed bare and Christophe can't decide if he's surprised or not. He wonders if Anya's got the hockey player waxing too and how he might be able to find out for sure.

But that's a story for another time. Christophe cups Georgi's balls, ponders a blowjob with a surprise finger at the end, but unreciprocated mouth or hand is so low-level there's no achievement badge in it. Harder to get a straight man to sit next to you in a movie theatre than to convince him to let you suck him off.

He leans into Georgi, presses his erection into Georgi's hipbone and grinds in, just to let Georgi know what he's dealing with here. "Are you going to make me do all the work?"

Georgi's head comes up and he stares at Christophe with that stormcloud face, because of course he was. Swears again, words falling out of his mouth, one hand waving in the air. But the other hand is still on Christophe's back and Georgi's cock is still hard in Christophe's hand.

"Like this," Christophe says. He cracks a packet of lubricant and Georgi's eyes go wide. But teaching Georgi how to be fucked is a future project, or it will be if this goes well, and regardless of what Georgi has been up to with Anya, Christophe isn't going to let some newbie up inside him in the middle of a competition.

Christophe drops his pants, slicks up his thighs, turns and braces one hand against the wall. "You'll like it," he says over his shoulder.

Georgi hesitates, ridiculous and hot with his red eyes and his leftover lipstick and his dick hard and swinging free.

"Come on, Vodka Tonic," Christophe says. "Don't be a tease."

"Bitch," Georgi says and covers Christophe, pushes his cock between Christophe's legs. 

Christophe shifts his feet and presses his thighs together. "Hands on my hips," he says, "and then it's just like fucking."

Georgi puts his hands on Christophe's hips, pulls back, thrusts, and then it's just like fucking. Georgi's cock slips through Christophe's legs, nudging the back of his scrotum, Georgi's hands tighten, his breath blows out on Christophe's neck.

Christophe closes his eyes, one hand on the rough wall, the other pulling his own dick. Almost like that time in Paris in the locker room with Victor taking his time, Christophe staring at the door, daring it to open on them.

Then he catches Georgi's hand and wraps it around his dick. Georgi stops, his smooth pelvis against Christophe's ass, his hand rigid on Christophe's cock.

"Deal with it," Christophe says, and closes his hand over Georgi's, makes Georgi stroke him, up and down, up and down.

"Fuck," Georgi says and lets it happen, thrusts his hips and jerks his hand, rough and ragged, with a catch in his breath that makes Christophe think Georgi is crying.

When Christophe is getting close, he pulls forward, turns around, looks Georgi in his wet face, in his crazy eyes. He takes Georgi's cock in his hand, Georgi takes Christophe's — _you do me and I'll do you_ — the smell of the baijiu on Georgi's breath, in the air from the spilt bottle.

Christophe puts his other hand on the back of Georgi's neck, pulls him in, _let's try this on hard mode,_ and kisses him. Georgi opens his mouth and Christophe strokes his tongue inside, no more resistance, just Georgi under his hands, moving with him, taking him in.

A door clangs above them. Christophe's pulse spikes, Georgi starts, pulls back. Footsteps echo — up or down?

"Don't stop," Christophe hisses and twists Georgi around, pushes him back against the wall, fists Georgi's cock. "Don't fucking stop." He pushes his mouth down on Georgi's and Georgi kisses him, rubs Christophe's dick.

The footsteps are louder, closer, and so is Georgi, so is Christophe, blood singing in Christophe's ears, throbbing through his body, pulsing in his dick. Just like that time Christophe and Georgi had sex in a hotel stairwell, just like now.

Another door clangs, the footsteps fade away, and Georgi comes all over Christophe's hand. His face twists, a grimace so dramatic it almost seems put on, and it's that painful look that sends Christophe after him, just barely in time with his handkerchief. "Bitch," he gasps in Georgi's ear.

Christophe hands the handkerchief to Georgi and does his trousers back up. He takes out his phone. "Look up," he says and takes a selfie, arm around Georgi's neck.

"Bastard!" Georgi grabs for the phone but Christophe slips it back into his pocket.

Then Christophe takes Georgi's chin in his hand and kisses him one more time, slow and deep, just to show Georgi that he can. Georgi waits too long before he pulls away and swears and Christophe smiles.

Georgi's phone chimes and he dives for it.

"Tell Yakov I said hi." Christophe uploads the photo to Instagram. _Hanging out with Vodka Tonic!_ No one can tell that Georgi has his pants down in the picture.

Georgi stuffs his phone into his pocket. He pushes past Christophe, glances back once, then runs up the stairs.

Christophe watches him go. He picks up the bottle. There's a good three fingers of baijiu left and he takes a drink, just one swallow, coughs as the heat sinks through his chest.

He sends a text to Victor and starts to climb the stairs.


End file.
